


Color me your color, darling

by Builder



Series: Heroverse [35]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Bucky Barnes Has PTSD, Bucky Barnes's Metal Arm, Dreams and Nightmares, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nightmares, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sickfic, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-20
Updated: 2020-08-20
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:28:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26011894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Builder/pseuds/Builder
Summary: The dream is already gone by the time Bucky’s eyes flutter open, his lips moist and his stomach stretched open at the back of his throat.  Only the essence of it remains, along with a searing pain at the top of his shoulder.  The neural connections are broken, severed from long gone flesh and re-wired to fine bits of thinly stretched vibranium wire.  It’s almost like feeling, but not quite.  He usually barely notices the loss of sensation that carries down to his shiny metallic fingertips.  But today, or tonight, or this morning –he can’t really be sure; he doesn’t catch sleep at the usual hours on missions– it’s all that fills his foggy mind.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Series: Heroverse [35]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/838239
Comments: 1
Kudos: 33





	Color me your color, darling

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on Tumblr @builder051

The dream is already gone by the time Bucky’s eyes flutter open, his lips moist and his stomach stretched open at the back of his throat. Only the essence of it remains, along with a searing pain at the top of his shoulder. The neural connections are broken, severed from long gone flesh and re-wired to fine bits of thinly stretched vibranium wire. It’s almost like feeling, but not quite. He usually barely notices the loss of sensation that carries down to his shiny metallic fingertips. But today, or tonight, or this morning –he can’t really be sure; he doesn’t catch sleep at the usual hours on missions– it’s all that fills his foggy mind. 

Bucky reaches for the phone on his bedside table. He can’t see through the red haze that presses against his eyeballs. He doesn’t know if he remembered to blink or not, if it’s dryness he feels or the febrile sting of tears. Bucky uses his flesh hand to scroll through his apps by rote, choosing contacts, then flicks his thumb with just the right amount of pressure to make it halfway down the list, to Steve’s name, before he firmly presses down on the icon to place his call.

It doesn’t matter that Bucky’s supposed to be on a mission, that he’s undercover in a hovel of an apartment somewhere in Belarus. SHIELD will pay for the long distance call, encode it so it can’t be tracked, then brief him in the morning to be sure he’s alright to carry on. He will be alright to carry on. 

Bucky shifts himself over the edge of the dirty mattress as he listens to the phone ring out, his heart palpitating wildly. Bile slides up into his mouth, and he lets it run up one cheek and dribble out onto the floor. He cringes and fights the urge to cough at the bitter taste, but he has to be quiet now. He can’t make a sound as he waits for Steve to speak.

Finally the tired voice picks up on the other end. “Buck? You alright?”

Bucky breathes raggedly. He wants to spit, but he can’t move. “Steve.”

“Yeah, I’m here.” There’s an audible yawn, then the click of the bedside lamp in their apartment at home.

“I lost it again,” Bucky murmurs.

“The arm?” Steve asks quietly.

Bucky nods. Then he realizes that’s not what he meant at all. “The dream, I mean. I can’t… I can’t explain it to you.”

They’ve been over this a thousand times at least. Something in the dream spooks him, spooks him bad. It makes Bucky call out in the night, whether they’re together in bed or apart on various missions. Steve’s sure Bucky’s remembering HYDRA taking his arm, maybe hurting him in other ways. Maybe worse ways. Bucky isn’t so sure. “I just needed to hear your voice,” he whispers, trying hard not to be sick again.

“I know,” Steve says, his tone going soft. “It’s ok, remember? SHIELD encrypts the calls. They make it all ok.”

“I know,” Bucky echoes. “Yeah.”

“Do you want me to stay with you until you feel better? Until you fall asleep again?”

Bucky wants to say yes. But he almost does feel better. He can nearly see again, see that what he vomited up was only half bile and the rest blood. He can taste it now, too. It’s the same metallic flavor that filled his mouth as when they cauterized what was left of his bleeding stump and jammed it into the black sleeve serving as a bridge to the new metallic appendage. Maybe Steve’s right. Maybe the dream is about the cutting of his flesh, of surgery sans anesthetic.

Bucky does gag again, prompting Steve to ask him what’s wrong. 

“Sorry,” Bucky says weakly. “Threw up a little.”

Steve makes a sympathetic sound. “I’d clean up for you if I could. That way you could just rest.”

“You’re…” Bucky shakes his head, hard. His hair flops against the phone, and he hopes Steve hears it. “Absolutely… nuts…”

“Shut up and stop being a martyr. Let me take care of you. Or as best as I can do from where I am.” The call crackles a little, as if emphasizing that Steve’s back stateside. 

“Hm.” Bucky sighs. Then nods, unclenching his jaw that he didn’t realize he was holding so tightly, teeth against teeth. “Yeah.”

“Now, remember what I said before you left? Remember what Fury agreed we could do?” Steve’s voice goes stern for a moment. 

“Call you,” Bucky whispers.

“That’s right. You call me, whatever the problem is, whatever time it is, and I’m here for you.”

“Just not in the middle of shooting up the bad guys.” Bucky’s face breaks into an unexpected grin. He coughs again. Feels a little sick for it. But he hopes Steve catches his drift.

Steve gives a little huff that means the corners of his mouth have twitched as well. “You sure know how to put it.”

“A damn sight better than you do, punk.” Bucky doesn’t know what’s gotten into him. Why he’s suddenly speaking like this, like his old, confident, Brooklyn self. He supposes he craves that time of his life, before he lost the arm, before he lost everything. 

But he didn’t lose everything, though. He still has Steve, who he can call at any hour of the day, even if he’s in Belarus or somewhere else far away, stuck on a mission he currently can’t remember how to complete. “Steve?” Bucky asks.

“Yeah?”

“Still think I’m a jerk?”

Steve pauses for a moment. “Is that a trick question?”

“Naw, just… Do you still think I’m me?”

“Of course I do, Buck. Of course.”

Bucky nods, then feels himself begin to smile again. “Thanks,” he says quietly. 

They both stay on the call for a few more minutes, listening to each other breathe. Bucky ends it when he starts seeing red fog again, but this time it’s because he can no longer keep his eyes open. And this time, he knows he’ll be able to drift back to sleep.


End file.
